goodbye
by kathleenfergie
Summary: Christine had not known whether or not he was still alive. It wasn't until the fourth year of her marriage, well into her first successful pregnancy, that she received word of him. Mme. Giry had sent her a small letter, with only a few sentences explaining the man's fate. She had not cried - no, she could not cry about something that was irreversible. Oneshot.


Hokay. So here's a POTO oneshot, instead of my previous two LND oneshots. This is set mostly in the ALWverse POTO, but because I'm reading the book right now, I've got some references from there in her. It's set after the burning of the opera house, a few years later. Erik isn't physically in it, but it's basically about Christine thinking about him, and then Raoul being his usual dick-self. I hate him with a passion, at least in the musical. In the book he's kind of wimpy, but still kind of a dick. Oh yeah, and when I mention Christine being pregnant, it's not Gustave, her and Erik's love child from LND. This is another with no dialogue, so have fun. The title is honestly one of my worst, don't try to understand it.

Leroux and Webber and co. own this shit.

* * *

Christine had not been to Paris since the fire. She had refused to allow herself any contact with her past, because it was too much to bear. The closest she ever came as when she would go to Perros to visit her father's grave, and even then she quickly hurried back in a carriage to her home. Home to her husband and their grand house, so quiet yet at the same time all she could hear was noise. Christine listened for everything, stilling her breath every so often to make sure she wasn't hearing another's breathing, just on the other side of the wall. Her own house was a stranger to her, and she found safety only in her and Raoul's room, or with Raoul himself. She drew great strength from her husband, even if he did seem somewhat apprehensive of her.

Christine assumed he thought she would get up one day and run from him; that she would take all her belongings and a carriage, and go find her masked man.

It was not so, however, as Christine did not have the bravery to leave. The only time she was alone was in Perros, or when she was bathing. She made sure to have at least one servant in the room at all times, so that someone could witness a _great disaster _if there was to be one. She would have them check the walls for mechanisms, and she rarely looked into mirrors. Vanity had escaped Christine some time ago. She trusted that her handmaids would not leave her in an embarrassing state, and Raoul always perked up at seeing her each morning after the women were done with her, giving her some faith.

Raoul loved balls, and Christine often found herself twisting and turning in grand ballrooms all over France. She refused to attend the masked ones, though, so Raoul would go unaccompanied, and she would wring her hands for three days until he returned. Christine hated how weak she felt without him, but those last moments in that underground home had set her feeling of safety very low when he was not around. Having not heard from her masked angel of death since the dreaded night of the chandelier drop, Christine had not known whether or not he was still alive; whether or not he was coming to kill them all.

It wasn't until the fourth year of her marriage, well into her first successful pregnancy, that she received word of him.

Mme. Giry had sent her a small letter, with only a few sentences explaining the man's fate.

She had not cried - no, she could not cry about something that was irreversible. She did not have the liberty to get upset and be hysterical, knowing it could only potentially hinder her growing babe. Her constant stress had resulted in several miscarriages in the last few years. So, no, she did not cry. Christine had simply written back as courtesy would have her do, and then she burned the letter. She had spent a week trying to repress the onslaught of thoughts about the man, but she found herself constantly hearing his voice, hearing the click of the mirror door. She did not play the grand piano that sat in their parlour, and she did not sing. She imagined she would sing to her child once it was born, but for now, she was silent. After the letter had come, she had dressed in mourning, like she would when she visited her father. Raoul did not enjoy the sight of his pregnant wife in black dress, but he said nothing. He knew she was mourning her teacher and father figure, that was all.

He only became suspicious when she declared she would be going to Perros once again, and would stop in Paris to visit her adoptive family; Meg and Mme. Giry, who Christine had now come to address by her first name, Antoinette. The two still lived in the opera house, which had been rebuilt to it's previous grandeur after they received a new patron. The Vicomte de Chagny had long since halted his stem of money to the Opera. She would be staying in the Prima Ballerina's suite with Meg, who had earned the title two years ago. Raoul had wanted to come with her, but she persuaded him not to, knowing he would be a dark cloud on her visit. Raoul had also forced her to check with a physician to see if she was fit to travel in her condition, and she knew he had secretly prayed for a negative answer. It hadn't been so, however; the doctor had deemed her able to endure the long carriage ride without any danger to the child or herself, and so she set out with one of her maids to Perros and then the dreaded Paris.

The visit to her father's grave had been like every other before. Christine prayed and lit a candle at the edge of the large headstone, setting a metal cover over the flame to save it from rain, and then she went back to the carriage for the heart wrenching ride to Paris. She watched out the window, looking at the cold snow melting over the pale green grass that had started to sprout.

Her arrival at the opera house had been met with stares of confusion and contempt, the former from people who had not worked there before the disaster, and the latter from those who had and knew she was to blame. They probably assumed that she was there to muck up everything once more. The men looked lewdly on her, although they could clearly see her state of health, and the women turned their noses up at the Vicomtess. They did not know why she wore the garb of mourning, but after small talk was made, they came to believe she wore it for her father.

Meg and Mme. Giry had whisked her away from the crowds quickly, letting her rest in the Prima suite. Her maid was sent to stay with the Opera employees, much to Christine's distress. The woman was a trained midwife, that being the reason she had come with her Mistress, and Christine did not want her far from her in case of complications. After reassurance from the two Girys, she complied and did indeed rest after her journey.

When night came, however, she found herself restless. Her back was hurting and she could not lay in her bed for much longer. Still clad in only her nightgown, Christine grabbed a candlestick and walked along the halls of the house.

She found herself trailing the pads of her fingers across the crisp wallpaper and stone carvings, using them to guide her along with the candlelight. The opera house had been rebuilt to be almost identical with the original, as if the chunk of history concerning the masked man never occurred that something had affected her life so greatly did not exist anymore.

At last, Christine stopped in the main house, staring out at the dark stage, lit with one candle as if someone would need the light at this time. She was astonished that no one thought to extinguish all the lights after the great fire this building had more or less survived. She advanced toward the front of the seating area, coming to a stop at the banister of the pit. She squinted, looking into the black of the stage area. The backdrops had been raised, revealing the backstage, where she knew many twist and turns resided. She remembered scurrying up and down the spiral staircase, twisted like a corkscrew, so that she would not be late for rehearsal.

Those days were gone, however, and all that was left was the empty blackness of the stage.

Christine gripped the banister, setting her candle down. She hoped that holding onto a solid, inanimate object that she would find the strength she needed to say her penance to the masked man who was now dead.

She did not speak for very long, only letting her voice ring out in the still quiet for a moment, and then she was silent once more. He was dead, she knew, but as she hoped her father heard her as her angel in heaven, she hoped that her angel in hell could also hear her words and say goodbye.

Christine left the house and continued to explore the building in a dull haze.

How she ended up in his box, she did not know, but the maids woke her in the wee hours of the morning, where she awoke in box five, exhausted and stiff.

She spent almost a week visiting her adoptive family, and made her trek home to her anxious husband. She had taken the mourning wear off by the day of the ride home, and Raoul was glad to see his wife had let go of her masked man.

Christine would never tell him that the name of their son came from that man, though. She held the young babe after the difficult process that was his birth, and looking at his deep coat of brown hair, named him after her teacher, her angel. He grew to have her curly hair and Raoul's blue eyes that raged like the Swedish sea in which he had once rescued her scarf from.

She did not forget Erik, but, in time, she was able to live without the constant fear, and that was all Christine felt she needed. She had no children after her son, and though Raoul was disappointed, she was happy with the small blue eyed boy who loved to hear her sing.

_fin. _


End file.
